


'Twas The Night Before Christmas

by justbygrace



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Non-Explicit Sex, angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2017-04-02
Packaged: 2018-10-13 21:21:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10522119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justbygrace/pseuds/justbygrace
Summary: "It was the night before Christmas, and Rose Tyler was headed home from a party early."





	

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, another one that hasn't seen the light of the interwebs for literally years.

It was the night before Christmas, and Rose Tyler was headed home from a party early. She'd tried to stay and socialize, but she just couldn't, not tonight. She'd been feeling off for a couple weeks; she wondered if maybe she was coming down with something. Maybe it was the cold weather finally freezing her heart, maybe it was the pressures of turning twenty in two months, whatever it was it had her headed back to her flat, thin jacket wrapped around her against the softly falling snow. She heard him before she saw him, a stream of chatter cutting through the still night air, nonsense really, but it made her pause, surveying the street where she caught sight of a pair of brown trousers and red chucks sticking out from underneath the hood of an old blue car. She called out to him, temporarily shocked at her own bravery, and watched a long body twist around till a face with horn-rimmed glasses and pointy chestnut hair peeked out, grease stains on one cheek. He grinned at her jovially, fingers waggling in greeting, saying something about cold weather and uncooperative engines; she wasn't listening to his words anymore.

It was love at first sight for him, or as close to love as he let himself feel these days. His day had sucked, hell, his entire life had sucked up until this moment. This moment when he was freezing his ass off in the dead of night, in the middle of winter, poking and prodding at his engine and he heard her voice calling out to him, this moment when he had stuck his head out to see a blonde girl, blonde woman, the gently falling snow caressing her shoulders, arms wrapped tightly around herself. He didn't think he'd ever seen anything as beautiful, and he'd been around the world - twice. He bounded out from under the hood, voice prattling on about wires and bad luck and recalibration, but he wasn't even listening to what he was saying; he was far more interested in what she had to say, what she wanted, where she's going, what she's doing, who she was. She grinned at him, something wide and beautiful, with a hint of her tongue and his blood rushed south. He swore he could feel the world turning around them and he found himself holding out a hand, desperate to share it with someone.

The carolers sang as they danced through the night, him twirling her around the lampposts and bushes in the park, the falling snow giving them both halos. He was holding her tighter than propriety, and the twenty minutes they've known each other, dictated and she doesn't care, just moves infinitesimally closer and rests her head on his chest. There was something familiar and safe about this man, something that made her trust him, know him, love him, want him. He had stopped talking for a moment and all she could hear was the far off sound of those carolers, something about peace on earth and she suddenly knew exactly what that meant. She tipped her head back, tilting it to the side and then, in a fit of daring she never would have believed she possessed, brushed her lips across the side of his cheek.

She was a small town girl, what did she know of his lifestyle? He had a job, a mission, a calling that did not allow him to settle down in one place, to chain himself to a house with doors and carpets and a mortgage. He needed to stop this, to back away, to hop in his car and run as fast and as far as he could. That's what he should do, but he found himself turning his head, meeting her lips, tentative at first, chaste, but then her tongue came into play: he knew then he was lost, and not likely to return anytime soon. He briefly entertained the idea of fighting her for dominance, but he gave up before he began; this was about what she wanted and what he could give to her, even if it was only for the night. 

He was a traveling guy; it hadn't taken her long to pick up on that one. She knew the likelihood of him sticking around after this was slim to none, but she couldn't help herself, not really. There was something intoxicating about the crisp air against her bare skin, about the knowledge that anyone could wander by, about the feel of bark behind her, about the feel of him surrounding her that has her biting back swears, teeth digging into his shoulder. She could feel the marks he was leaving on her, bruises and scrapes and scratches, and she felt oddly victorious as she returned them, as she met him thrust for thrust, bite for bite. He could walk away as soon as they were done and she knew he'd still wake up tomorrow, and for several mornings thereafter, with her impression on his skin. There was a part of her that was yelling at her, screaming at her about being ridiculous and reckless and so bloody stupid, but she ignored it, choosing to focus on the sensations, on the give and take of their union, and may consequences be damned.

He never caught her name as they said their goodbyes and he started his car, headlights briefly sweeping over her before pointing north. It took him ten minutes and not nearly as many lengths of road before he jerked his car to a stop, shoulders heaving with disgust and self-hatred. He dropped his head to the steering wheel, a litany of vicious words swirling through his mind. He was a bastard, one that didn't deserve something as beautiful and pure as that woman and he knew it, knew he needed to pull back on the road and head to Wales, to Scotland, to bloody Russia, somewhere that wasn't backwards, wasn't turning towards the closest to heaven he was ever going to find on this miserable excuse of a planet. Twenty-two minutes, thirteen seconds, and a lot of reckless driving later, he found himself back at that park and he was out of the car and running before he was aware of his actions, desperation leaking out of every action. When he saw her, shoulders hunched on a forgotten swing he promptly forgot to breathe, dropping to his knees in the snow beside her, words pouring out of him, words like "please" and "I'm sorry" and "give me another chance" and when she looked at him, a trace of a smile in her eyes, he promised himself right then and there that if she wanted mortgages and carpets and doors that he would offer it to her if she would only stay with him.


End file.
